


Unexpected by Madison

by sgamadison



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgamadison/pseuds/sgamadison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney was a member of his team.  You don't *eat* team members.  Spoilers (in a way) for Season 2 through the Long Goodbye, Michael, Season 3 Common Ground and Season 4 Outcast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected by Madison

This idea came to me after reading a WIP posted here on wraithbait called A Different Kind of Duet by manga_ghost. After reading that fun little piece, I became obsessed with the idea of wraith behaving out of character, wearing ipods, etc. From there my thoughts morphed into what if John were somehow turned into a wraith--the thing he hates the most? And what if he and Rodney were imprisoned in a cell together? You can see where this is going...so I wanted to give a nod here to the author-whose-name-I-can't remember for providing inspiration--no toes intentionally stepped on. Thanks again to the_cephalopod for her excellent beta assistance (keeping me on track once again).

Chapter 1 by Madison

Author's Notes:

This story is set somewhere in Season 2 but well before Common Ground. The events here could be said to foreshadow CG, as well as Outcast.

His head hurt. Oh god, his head hurt. To say it ' _hurt_ ' though was a serious understatement; this was beyond hurt, this was a stabbing, ice pick through your left eye, crippling, nauseating, head-crushed-in-a-vise kind of hurt. And he didn't even have the hangover to suggest he'd had a good time getting here. Wherever _here_ was.

Cautiously, he tried a small movement, but the action triggered the vertigo again and that just wasn't fair, how could the room continue spinning when his eyes weren't even open in the first place? He clutched feebly at the floor, curling his hand into to a moist, hard-packed surface, brain registering that it was soil and not concrete or metal decking, the odor of loamy dirt overwhelming his nostrils and then he was retching again, the taste of bile bitter in his mouth. He couldn't move, couldn't crawl away out of his own vomit; he could only lie there, cold and miserable, waiting for the nausea to pass. _What the fuck happened_?

And where was the rest of his team? Because that much he remembered. He remembered coming through the gate, routine mission, oh-look-at-that, an energy signature and then a temple, or maybe just some ruins this time and...and then what? It would probably help if all of their missions hadn't started to blur just a little in his mind. Maybe if the terrain on all the planets didn't look quite so much like the Pacific Northwest. Or if the villages didn't all resemble one another. He knew how hard it must be for some of these societies to eek out an existence but once, just once he'd like a place to be memorable for something other than the deadly local fauna or the Mission That Went Bad.

As this one undoubtedly must have done. He hated that. Hated that he couldn't remember all the details. Yet. He was sure they would come back to him soon. A small part of his brain suggested that he could just continue to lie here, coiled up on the hard clay floor, and wait patiently for Rodney to fix this. Rodney could fix anything. He was drifting along nicely, telling himself this was a good plan, when the Sarcastic Colonel part of him said, ' _what, are you on crack_?' He was jerked back to awareness. Since the SC was responsible for his decision-making 95% of the time (well, okay, maybe more like 85%...or 70...) he felt like he should pay attention. He _never_ just sat back and waited for someone to come and make things better. _It would be nice though_ , whispered the little insidious part of his brain, and he could only attribute the momentary weakness to whatever trauma had caused the headache and the memory loss in the first place. He didn't even know what had happened to the rest of his team. They may not even be alive.

That thought forced him to rethink the idea of lying here until help arrived. Squinting, certain the light would be too bright, John carefully opened his eyes and took in as much of his surroundings as he could without moving. The overall lighting was fortunately dim, a caged lightbulb casting a weak beam from above, but that was about the only good thing John noted. He appeared to be in a primitive cell, rough hewn blocks forming a rectangular room around him; metal bars spanning the only exit. _Great. Just great_. He slowly wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket and then closed his eyes and waited to see if that would make things worse. _Okay. So, vertigo is starting to subside_.

Wincing, John shifted his position slightly and took stock of his condition. Aside from the brutal headache, he did not appear to have any other injuries that he could feel. Cautiously, he decided to try sitting up and he pushed against the clammy floor to ease himself into an upright position. In the grayish light, his hand looked foreign to him, skin unnaturally pale, fingers slightly elongated, nails dark with what must be dirt. For a second, he froze looking down at his hand where it rested against the floor, as though he had spotted a snake and could not be certain if it was poisonous or not.

_Oh ha-ha_ , he told his brain. "Very funny," he started to say out loud, but the words faded away into a rusty growl that he didn't recognize. With a growing sense of horror, he lifted his hand up from the floor, bringing it closer to his face for inspection. Like the idiot in the horror movie who _just can't help_ but look in the rearview mirror, John rotated his hand palm up. And looked straight down into a feeding orifice. Somehow, John was in the body of a Wraith.

He threw up again.

***

_This was bad, very bad_. This was so bad that he knew a moment of sheer panic, and he had to take several deep whooping breaths to try and calm down. He found himself wishing for a paper bag and then the mental image of a hyperventilating Wraith breathing in and out of one of those little brown lunch bags assailed him and he found himself giggling helplessly.

_Get a grip, Colonel. Let's have a sit rep_. Well, what _is_ your current situation, Sheppard? _Besides the fact you're so completely fucked_? The giggles abruptly died away, save for one or two that burst forth unexpectedly, like aftershocks. Okay, so what did he know? The last he remembered, the team was checking out some odd energy emissions. Something must have happened—something that placed him here, only he did not know what. He was uninjured—that was good. He felt himself listening consciously, internally, for what he was not certain, only it seemed to him that he was the only one occupying this body. However the transfer was made, at least he did not have to contend with the host personality as well. He also was not facing the situation that arose when the alien Thalen took over his body earlier this year and he was helpless to prevent the other consciousness from controlling his actions. He gave a little shudder at his thoughts and his appreciation for Teyla's willingness to delve into the mind of a Wraith for intel increased yet further.

Okay, so what else? He was in a cell—not good, but then he could understand why someone would want to lock him up. He was damned lucky he hadn't been shot already. He suddenly realized that when he hooked up with his team again he had roughly 0.9 seconds to convince Ronon not to kill him and he sighed heavily. One thing at a time.

Curiously, he checked out his clothing, only to discover that he was still wearing his uniform, though his tac vest and the rest of his gear was gone. He touched the back of his head and his hair seemed to feel as usual—maybe a little longer, but certainly not the typical long flowing locks the Wraith usually wore. He experimentally pulled down the fringe of hair that normally stood up out of his eyes. Yup. White. Somehow that made things feel worse. Not a simple transference from one body to another then. An actual _transformation_ of his own. He was betting that would be harder to reverse. On the other hand, it was slightly reassuring to know that there wasn't a Wraith running around somewhere in _his_ body, taking his team unawares, gaining access to the city...yeah, things could be worse.

_What can be done can be undone_. There was no magic involved here. Whatever machine had rendered him this way, surely Rodney could find a way to undo it. It occurred to him that maybe, just maybe he was placing an unreasonable burden on his CSO, but hell, why change now? _One day you're going to ask too much from him and when he can't deliver, it will destroy him_. He thought about that for a minute and then decided the day that he asked Rodney McKay, PhD for too much would be the day they all died anyway.

He could almost hear Elizabeth's soft but firm voice in his head telling him to ' _focus, John_ '. He couldn't help but wonder what the expedition leader's reaction would be were they face to face at this moment. Horror, revulsion? Definitely. Compassion, yes, that too. Even as she relieved him of duty, stripped him of his weapons and had him incarcerated. Not much different from the position he was in now. So really, no point in going back, was there? The compassion he could do without. _Focus, John_.

He got stiffly to his feet and began to explore the confines of his cell.

***

Time passed with interminable slowness. He went over every inch of the cell, looking for a way out, a weakness to exploit. After a while he stopped checking the time; something about turning over his abnormally pale-skinned wrist to look at the watch sickened him. It was easier when he was not faced with the blatant evidence of his transformation.

He couldn't help however, notice certain things. The way he seemed to be able to see so very well in the dim lighting—almost as though he had on night vision goggles. The fluidity of his movement once the vertigo finally passed. The sharpness of his senses in general—the way odors seemed to have _taste_ and his hearing was unusually acute. If he concentrated, he could actually hear the passage of a bead of moisture as it trickled down the wall in next to his ear, the tiny, dry whisperings of mouse feet as they scampered along the corridor, the thud of his heart in his own chest.

Then there was the unusual strength. Despite the rustic nature of the cell, iron bars made a very effective containment system for most prisoners; he had felt the iron give slightly when he had thrown himself at the door in frustration. The metal had given a creak of fatigue when he'd attacked it with a howl of rage, two of the bars widening slightly in response to his efforts. He had felt the anger building into something wild and unrecognizable within him and momentarily hesitated before giving into it fully, afraid of where it would lead. In the end, it didn't matter. He was still locked up with no explanations as to what had happened to him and his head was pounding once more.

Some things felt the same, however. His ears still retained their usual, somewhat triangular shape. The contours of his face felt the same, other than the addition of that little gill-like pore on either side of his nose that the Wraith seemed to have. He wasn't any taller. He'd taken off his jacket and inspected his arms and other than the fact that his veins were much more prominent under the pasty color of his skin (and his body hair was _white_ ), his arms looked like they belonged to him. Part of him was curious enough to wish for a mirror—the rest of him glad that he was locked in this dark holding cell.

He was trapped with a simmering hunger. Once the nausea had subsided, he had become aware of the sharp-edged need to _eat_. It struck him as ironic, given the way Ronon and Rodney often teased him about his eating habits. Ronon ate like a feral cat that was not certain of his next meal; quickly, efficiently, without finesse, wolfing down whatever was not nailed to the table. It was a wonder he had not died of food poisoning on some world somewhere. Rodney, John had decided long ago, ate for a variety of reasons that often had nothing to with hunger. He ate to stay awake, he ate for the company, and he ate when he was nervous or when he sought comfort. Rodney in particular acted as though John didn't eat enough or couldn't recognize good food when he saw it. Ronon, he had noted, had started paying attention to what Rodney chose to eat—in the months since Ronon had joined John's team, John was starting to notice the beginnings of selectivity. Teyla merely encouraged John to try and eat more fresh food in general. John liked food as much as the next guy, he just didn't dwell on it all that much—he'd grown up in a home where excellent food was a reflection of status, had moved on to the opposite end of the spectrum to nearly twenty years of military rations. He'd learned to appreciate a good steak when he could get one and the rest of the time, eat what was available. Food simply wasn't a big deal.

But he could never recall being hungry like _this_. It gnawed at his backbone with each breath. It lashed in his guts like the tail of an angry cat. His twisted sense of humor jokingly placed him in The Little Shop of Horrors as he waved leafy arms from within his clay pot and bellowed ' _feed me_ '. It was no joke though. He knew that; his mind just kept backpedaling from what it meant. He wondered if it was even possible for the Wraith to subsist by any other means of ingestion. Dr. Beckett had determined they did have stomachs and they obviously appeared humanoid so in theory, eating food as opposed to sucking the life force out of another person was possible. Maybe there was such a thing as the Wraith equivalent of vegetarianism. He thought suddenly of the scene in _Finding Nemo_ at the 'Fish-eaters Anonymous' meeting where the shark scents a drop of blood and reverts into a raging killer. John had a horrible vision of his eyes dilating until they were nothing but black holes in his face as he lunged forward to attack one of his friends or colleagues.

_Get a grip, Sheppard. This is not helping_.

In the end, he had no choice but to sit and wait for his captors to make the next move.

***

When it occurred, it was the last thing he expected. Time had ceased to have any real meaning for him. He knew that as a good soldier, he was expected to keep track of every hour he spent in captivity, marking the hours in his mind had he been without a watch, placing little tick marks on the wall to track the passing of days. He knew that the team had missed a check in and presumably Elizabeth would be putting together a rescue party to come in search of them. All he could think of however, instead of how long he'd been incarcerated, was how long could he go before he was forced to eat?

He'd been conscious in the cell for about three hours when suddenly the room was filled with the white light of a Wraith culling beam as it deposited a form into the center of the cell. The light was momentarily blinding and John shielded his eyes with spookily long fingers until the room returned to its normal dim lighting. Someone lay coiled on their side under the thin beam of the overhead light. There was the sound of dry heaves, and then a groan as the person moved feebly in an attempt to sit up.

"Oh god," said the familiar voice and John could not help the rush of relief he felt at the sound. "Where am I? What happened? Oh god, someone kill me now."

"Hey, buddy," John spoke, careful to stay back in the shadows where he sat propped up against the wall. He hated the weird resonance the Wraith voice had, as though several people were speaking at once. "You okay?"

"Sheppard?" Rodney said querulously, lifting his head with another groan. "Is that you? What the hell happened? Where are we? Oh god, I think I'm gonna puke."

_Shit. So much for getting some answers_. "I was hoping you could tell me, buddy. What's the last thing you remember?"

"We were checking out some energy emissions. I don't remember much after that. Where are you?" He struggled to sit up. "Ow. My head is killing me."

"Yeah. Me too." John winced as he contemplated the coming reaction. There was no good way around it though. A total Rodney freak-out was surely inevitable. "Um, you might want to watch where you step—I was sick a few times myself."

Rodney predictably wrinkled his nose. "Eeew. I could have done without that information, Colonel." He began patting his sides and pockets. "Damn it. They took all my gear."

"Who took all your gear, McKay?"

"Well, _I don't know_ —presumably the same people that plucked me up out of nowhere and deposited me here in this cell to await their dining pleasure like I was some kind of goddamn Thanksgiving turkey." Rodney's sarcasm was withering.

John really wished he hadn't mentioned the whole turkey thing. He could suddenly see the table at his grandmother's house, the golden skinned turkey, the heaping platter of fresh baked rolls, plates stacked with savory dressing, green beans, candied yams and those little sausage balls that no one else in the family knew how to make...no, he would _not_ think about food. His mind suddenly supplied an image of Rodney, naked and spread out before him on a table, skin glistening with oil. He was so startled by the seemingly unrelated thought he almost lost track of what he was saying. "Um, yeah, about that, McKay..."

"You sound funny. Are you alright, Colonel? Ohmygod, you're injured, right? That's why you..." Rodney began to scrabble to his feet and head over towards John's location.

"Rodney, wait." Rodney halted uncertainly in his tracks at John's sudden command. "There's something you should know..."

Rodney swayed a little, pressing a hand to his forehead and wincing. "What? Spit it out, Colonel. The suspense is killing me. You know in the time it takes for you to tell me what you have on your mind, I can come up with at least five worst case scenarios, all of which scare me more than anything you have to say, right? So just tell me."

_Okay. Fine. Have it your way_. "Really?" John got to his feet and stepped forward into the light. "I'm guessing not this time."

The reaction was everything he could have hoped for. Rodney staggered backwards at the sight of him, fell down hard on his ass and then scuttled crablike towards the furthest corner of the room, mouth opening and closing in abject terror.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Rodney was whispering to himself as John approached him. He knelt down beside Rodney, who cringed away, pressing up against the wall. "Okay," he croaked out, "I should just point out that yes, yes, you could eat me now, and I'm sure I would provide a nice tasty little snack for you, but that would be an utter and complete waste of my talents! There isn't another brain like mine anywhere in the Pegasus galaxy and I don't mean how it _tastes_ , either."

"Rodney." John couldn't help it; a part of him was amused at Rodney's fear of him and his need to try and talk his way out of certain doom. Still, he didn't want the guy to have an aneurysm or something.

"No, this brain is _brilliant_ and if you waste it as a snack, then you will never know how valuable it could have been to you otherwise." He had his eyes all screwed up and was folded in on himself, as though by blocking access to his chest, he would somehow be safe.

"A snack, Rodney? Seems more like a three course meal to me." John exaggerated his drawl on purpose.

The eye nearest to him opened, large and anxious. "Sheppard?" He opened the other eye and then sat up straighter. "Ohmygod, _John_? Is that you?"

John felt oddly pleased at Rodney's use of his first name. He didn't think he'd ever heard Rodney use it before, not even when they were just kicking back and hanging out around the city.

"Ohmygod, it is you." Rodney looked utterly appalled. "How did this happen? This is just so _wrong_."

_You're telling me_. "I don't know, Rodney, it just did. I've been stuck in this cell for hours and you're the first person I've seen. Where are Ronon and Teyla?"

Rodney began leaning ever so slightly away from John. "Been here for hours, you say?"

Irritation bloomed up sharply in John. "Oh for Chrissakes, Rodney. I'm not going to eat you. Ronon and Teyla. Where are they?"

"I don't remember," Rodney groaned, closing his eyes and massaging his temples once more.

_Well, what good are you_? The thought was unjust and he knew it. He remembered what he'd felt like on arrival in the cell and even after several hours here, he wasn't much better. Still part of him seethed with the uselessness of McKay at this moment and a sly little voice in his head suggested that Rodney was his to do with as he pleased. Wasn't it his right as team leader? _Just...don't go there_ , he warned his brain.

"You've been here for hours and you haven't found a way out yet? That's not good," Rodney was saying. "What do they want?"

"Who?" John found himself asking.

"They! Them! The people who took us prisoner. Or haven't you been paying attention, Colonel?" Rodney glared at him, eyes narrowed in irritation until he saw something in John's expression that made him falter and drop his gaze. "That is to say, no one has interrogated you yet?"

"Like I said, McKay," John drawled. "You're the first person I've seen in hours. What happened before that is a little sketchy." The silence became a palpable thing between them, heavy and holding its breath. John was conscious of the fact that he was kneeling within arm's reach of Rodney. The heat coming off Rodney's form was practical visible to his eye. He could feel a growing compulsion to touch Rodney and he started to breathe faster. His eyes closed to half-slits as he pictured himself tracing the line of Rodney's jaw, following the planes of his neck to where his pulse jumped at the base of his throat. Needing to redirect his thoughts, John said hesitantly, "So, is it as bad as I think?"

Rodney did not pretend to misunderstand. "Once I got a good look at you, I knew who you were—I mean, the color of your eyes and skin and hair is all wrong, but I can still see it's you."

"Me as a Wraith." His voice sounded bitter and angry to his ears. There, he'd said it out loud.

"Yes. Right. Um." Rodney looked up, an odd combination of fear and concern shining in his eyes. "So. Does it hurt?"

"Hurt?" John was really confused now.

"This." Rodney's hand flapped to encompass John's current presentation. "Does it hurt?"

An odd feeling of tightness encompassed John's chest. "No. I mean, I've got a really bad headache, but other than that..."

"Oh. Right." Rodney suddenly looked painfully sad. "I just wondered. You know, when you started changing with the retrovirus, I didn't handle that very well. I didn't know _how_ to handle it. You weren't _you_."

_I'm not me now, Rodney_. He wanted to say it, but somehow could not. Instead the silence stretched between them again until suddenly John felt the need to put some space between him and Rodney. He got to his feet lightly and easily, spinning on his heel to cross to the other side of the cell.

***

"What?" Rodney said sharply from within the shadows of his corner. It had been hours since Rodney's arrival and still nothing had changed. No way out. No sign of their captors. John was beginning to worry that maybe they'd been thrown into an oubliette.

"What 'what'?" John answered back, frowning.

"What's up with the maniacal laughter?" Rodney's voice sounded both grumpy and uneasy at the same time and John marveled at the depth of expression to his tone.

"I think it's more of a chuckle, actually." John attempted to keep his own tone mild.

"Oh so we're arguing _semantics_ now?" Rodney seemed to imply that if they were, John was bound to lose. "Chuckle, laughter, whatever. Stop it. It's maniacal. You're creeping me out."

"Sorry." John was aware that he didn't sound particularly sorry but he couldn't alter that fact.

There was a long silence and then Rodney, inevitably, spoke again. "So what was so funny?"

"I don't think it _was_ funny," John said slowly. "It just occurred to me..." He allowed his voice to drift into silence, not wanting to put the thought into words.

After a moment, Rodney prompted. "Yes?"

John laughed again, aware now that it wasn't a very pleasant sound at all. "I was just thinking that not only have I lived up to my father's predictions of coming to a bad end but I've also finally become the man he's always wanted me to be."

"Sarcastic, with a greenish complexion and a shock of gravity-defying white hair?" Now Rodney sounded concerned, waspish and somewhat frightened as well, and wasn't that just _beautiful_? You had to admire a person who could convey all that in one sentence.

The urge to move was so strong he was on his feet before he knew it, stalking over to the corner that Rodney had staked out for himself. He moved so fast; it felt like he was floating. He heard the sudden intake of breath, saw Rodney scramble to his feet but then he was there, slamming his chest up against Rodney's and pinning him to the wall with his body, bracketing Rodney's head with his forearms against the rough stone surface. Rodney's Adam's apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed and turned his head away.

John leaned in. Rodney just smelled so damn good. He could feel his mouth start to water and he had to swallow too before speaking. "No, Rodney," his words came out with a sneer. "That's not what Dad had in mind. He wanted someone who could be ruthless, powerful and _hungry_. 'You've got to want it badly enough to take it, son', he used to say. Take what I want because it's _mine_."

Rodney wriggled slightly, involuntarily against him, like a mouse under a lion's paw. Astonishingly John felt a rush of heat to his groin as he got very hard, very fast. A soft moan escaped him, barely more than a whisper, and he half closed his eyes at the sensation. He pushed in closer, inhaling deeply behind Rodney's ear without actually touching his skin, taking in the rich, warm scent. He could smell the sharp tang of fear in Rodney's sweat, as well as the heady and unexpected scent of arousal. _Well, wasn't that just a kick in the pants_? He tried an experimental little push with his pelvis and felt Rodney's breath catch and stutter. When he opened his eyes fully again, Rodney was staring at him in panic, taking short little gasping breaths as he tried hard not to freak out. When their eyes connected, Rodney closed his own abruptly, screwing them up tight as though to shut John out.

He had the most amazing eyelashes.

John suddenly realized what he was doing and pushed himself away. Jeez, it's a wonder he hadn't given Rodney a heart attack by now.

"Sorry," he said again, his voice sounding rusty. This time he meant it.

Rodney opened one eye cautiously. He held that position for a moment, squinting at John with one eye still screwed shut, then he straightened, opened the other eye and drew in a shuddering breath as he smoothed what must be sweaty palms over the front of his jacket. "We're going to fix this." His voice shook a little, but he still sounded confident.

This time John could hear the bitterness in his laugh. "Sure we are." He walked stiffly back over to his section of the cell, leaning against the wall as he slid down to rest on his heels. The silence stretched out uncomfortably, and then he said softly, "Atlantis was the one place I really felt like I belonged."

"You still do."

"Cut the crap, McKay." He had to clamp down on the wave of anger that followed Rodney's words. "You know as well as I do that I can't go back to the city like this. Even if you do somehow manage to convince Ronon not to kill me on sight." His laugh this time was not convincing. "I've been compromised and I'm now a threat to the city and everyone in the expedition."

"Colonel...John..." Rodney took a deep breath and a step forward into the shaft of light. It caught the edge of his eye and lit it up from within, like sunshine on the surface of a blue-gray sea. Rodney, being Rodney, squinted furiously at the light and jerked his head out of the beam. "John," he said again. "I will _fix_ this."

"Has it ever occurred to you Rodney, that there are some things even you cannot fix?"

Rodney looked as though he'd been sucker punched. "Yes, yes it has." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Probably more times than you would believe humanly possible." He took a step forward and pointed an angry finger at John. "But _this_ is not one of them."

"I can't go back, Rodney." As he spoke, the overwhelming hunger twisted in his belly and his cock jerked achingly in response. _Well, isn't this just dandy_. This was more about Wraith physiology than he ever wanted to know. _You so sure that's all Wraith talking there, buddy_? John closed his eyes briefly to try and shut out the voice in his head.

"And just where do you think you'll go, hmmn?" Rodney crossed his arms over his chest belligerently. "What do you intend to do with yourself?"

"I don't know. Join a hive ship? Maybe I can find some way to take them down from within."

"Oh, right. And you don't think they'll get more information from you than you would from them? Because they were oh-so accepting of Michael when he tried to rejoin them, if you will recall. You think they'll just welcome you with open arms because you all have the same dining club membership now?"

John felt his mouth fall open at Rodney's words and then he snorted with unanticipated laughter. His breath caught and he placed his head in his hands, leaning his elbows against his knees for support. "God, I'm really going to miss you, McKay." His words were muffled as he spoke.

"You're going to miss me?" Rodney suddenly sounded uneasy again. "Because you're planning to run off like some wounded animal as soon as we get out of here, right? That's not just a euphemism for you're going to eat me, is it?"

John lifted his head. God grant him patience. "No, Rodney, I'm not going to eat you. I'd rather shove my hand in a wood chipper first." There was a bit of a bite to his drawl.

"Oh. Good. Well, not good about the whole wood chipper thing, honestly, I could have lived without that imagery, thanks. But good about the not eating me part." Rodney rattled off his words nervously, sidling slightly further into the shadows again.

John couldn't resist. "Well, you do smell _really_ good."

"Um, I do?" And there it was, that note in Rodney's voice that said he was conflicted about possibly receiving a compliment but was considering the source at the same time. John felt his lips curl into what he suspected was a predatory smile.

"Oh yeah." He paused to consider. "Like bacon and coffee. Waffles with maple syrup. Lasagna." He dragged the word out into three decadent syllables. "Hot buttered garlic bread. A nice juicy ribeye. Potatoes. Pumpkin pie right out of the oven..." Involuntarily, the fingers of his right hand twitched.

Rodney's mouth dropped open and John could swear that Rodney could feel the hunger too. He abruptly clapped his lips shut in a thin line. "Okay, point taken. I smell like food. But you're not going to eat me, right?"

John tilted his head as though the decision might be open to discussion. "Well, maybe a nibble."

"Colo- _nel_!" Rodney squeaked.

"Just a lick behind one ear?" John said in mock hopefulness. He watched as Rodney closed his eyes and gave a little shudder, whether in revulsion or arousal John could not tell. He felt his cock surge again in his pants and he shifted uncomfortably. As teasing went, maybe he was taking this one too far.

"Not funny, Colonel." Rodney's blue eyes snapped open and he turned and stalked back to his corner.

_No, not funny Rodney_. And the whole situation was going to get progressively less funny over time, he knew. He couldn't help but think it was bound to have a tragic ending as well, like _Antigone_. He wondered what his fatal character flaw might be, though it hardly mattered now. It had been a while since he had read any of the Greek playwrights, but he was betting they didn't have this scenario covered.

***

The headache didn't really get any worse, but it didn't go away either. He found himself wishing for some water and then the image of a clear crystalline pool leapt to mind—the one they found on M3K-778—that burbled at the feet of a feathery waterfall, the light refracting the mist from the falls into a rainbow. _That_ had been a good mission. He closed his eyes at the memory, recalling the irresistible urge the team had to take off their shoes and go wading—once Rodney had sufficiently warned them all of possible Pegasus piranhas or lethal alien parasites. They'd decided to break for lunch there and after experiencing the cold shock of the water; they had spread themselves out on the giant, warm river stones and basked like cats in the sun. He remembered how good the water tasted, the clear, faintly mineral bite to it. He felt a faint smile tug at his mouth at the memory of how, scanner in hand, Rodney had finally been persuaded to roll up his pant legs and join them. Clearly uncomfortable walking on the bed of the pool, Rodney had nevertheless started to enjoy himself. John could hear his outraged ' _no splashing_!' and the happy little hum he made over the sandwiches they had brought and the faint buzz he'd made dozing in the sun after lunch. John smiled outright recalling the astonishing paleness of the skin of his legs, the gleam of water on his muscular calves, the way he'd looked when he'd shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted up at the falls...

The image of the sunny day suddenly darkened in John's mind as though storm clouds had rolled in, and John was thrown back into awareness of the cool dampness of the cell, his sense of thirst even stronger than before and his body telling him that Rodney's warm flesh contained all that he needed, all that he wanted, to slake his thirst, still his hunger, fulfill his _desire_...and he just didn't get it. This new, sudden obsession with Rodney that was more intimate than what would seem normal for...well, face it, _food_. _Yeah. But is it really a new obsession_? John didn't want to think about that. He wasn't going there.

John abruptly got up and began to pace. 10 feet to the first wall. 20 feet to the far corner. Maybe 8 feet to the ceiling...1600 cubic feet of space. Plenty of room in which to avoid Rodney. As he stalked past the corner where Rodney was sitting, Rodney drew in his feet slightly. John struggled to place an imaginary Rodney in a scene homily domestic, as far from their current situation as possible. Something so far out, so fantastic, it would boggle the mind and distract him from his random and inexplicable thoughts. Rodney grumpily ensconced on the couch, deep in a newspaper, no, make that a scientific journal, lifting his feet up to the coffee table as John ran the vacuum cleaner underneath his legs, yeah, that was good, because when was the last time John had vacuumed anything...Rodney in the kitchen, frying up bacon and making omelets, John sneaking up quietly behind him in sock feet to snake his arms around Rodney's chest, the sharp talons of his fingers digging in deeply and making him gasp...

" _Goddamn it_!" John yelled furiously and suddenly wheeled and struck the wall with his fist. He felt the bones in his hand break, the sudden, exquisite pain overriding everything, even his headache, even his hunger. He grimaced and tried to fold his fingers into a fist so that he could strike the wall again.

"Crap! John, no!" Rodney was on his feet and moving in his direction, hands shouting ' _stop_ ' with their movement as they reached towards him.

John spun away from the wall to face Rodney, lowering his head and glowering at him from under his shaggy white forelock, peeling his lips back into what he knew was an angry snarl. "Keep away from me, Rodney."

"Okay, now what good is it going to do for you to start hurting yourself?" Rodney halted his forward progress, but he was still clearly distressed and taking refuge in his usual combative attitude.

"It keeps me from thinking." Even as he spoke, he could feel the bones of his hand knitting at an abnormal rate, fingers clenching and unclenching as he could form a fist again. His hunger awoke with a vengeance, a sharper, more insistent edge to it this time. _Great_. So pain wasn't going to be useful as a distraction here.

There was a long silence in which the two of them stared at each other, the words ' _prey_ ' and ' _mine_ ' and ' _Rodney_ ' all running through John's head as his chest rose and fell hard with his increased respiration. Rodney, inexplicably, took another faltering step forward.

"John," he said with great pain in his voice.

"Rodney." John was embarrassed at the desperation in his own voice; that broke on Rodney's name. "Please. Stay back."

"You won't hurt me." Rodney's voice was suddenly stronger. "I know you."

"You _don't_ know me. You don't know a fucking thing about me!" John suddenly leapt away from the wall and sprang in his direction. Rodney took an involuntary step backward, but surprisingly lifted his chin challengingly in John's face when he stopped only inches from Rodney's own.

"I may not know the details. Where you lived as a kid, if you ever had a dog, who was the first person you kissed, why you never sent any word back to Earth when we were all pretty certain we were going to die. But I do know _you_. You don't work with someone day in and day out for years, leaping from one life or death crisis to another without knowing the core of who they are. And I know _you_. You are not this," his fingers snapped dismissively over John's outer shell.

"That's where you're wrong," John said hoarsely. "This has always been part of me."

Incredibly, Rodney's face took on the ' _what are you talking about, you moron_ ' expression and John wanted to laugh very badly, but could no longer do so. Nor could he put what he meant into words - that he was a killer, that he could suddenly see himself in Afghanistan, fighting with abnormal strength and speed, destroying the insurgents with his hands even as he used their deaths to regenerate his life. In this moment the fate he would not wish upon his worst enemy not only seemed fitting, but was also a natural weapon for him to wield.

Rodney began to snap his fingers rapidly and then shifted quickly to tapping his mouth with his index finger, eyes withdrawn and focused internally somewhere. "I've got it," he said suddenly, withdrawing his hand and looking up sharply at John. "This is a _test_."

"A what?" John said stupidly. He was terribly aware of Rodney's proximity to him. Just as it seemed impossible for him not to lean closer, Rodney spun around and began stomping in a small circle around the cell.

"A test, a test, Sheppard." He sounded cross. He appeared to be looking up at the walls, peering into the dark corners as he moved. His hand flapped over his shoulder in John's direction as he continued to move and speak. "This situation was _engineered_. Think about it. You, me, locked in a cell together. Team mates, but one has been changed into our greatest...most feared...enemy. We haven't seen our captors. We haven't been questioned. Someone has to be watching though. To see what happens."

"To see if I crack."

Rodney turned to look at John then. "To see what you're made of," he said quietly.

"Like the Gamesters of Triskilion?" John said sarcastically. "There're some aliens somewhere taking bets as to whether I kill you or not?"

Rodney snorted as he began searching the cell again for anything that might function as a hidden camera. "I was thinking more along the lines of Sartre and _No Exit_ , but if you want to reduce everything to _Star Trek_ , be my guest."

"Hey," John tried for mock-wounded but it came out sounding for real. "I was thinking of Greek tragedies earlier."

"So you see things ending in a bloodbath for all concerned? Oh well, now that's a cheery thought. Thanks for sharing."

"Hey, it's Pegasus. You're telling me you'd be surprised if a Cyclops or a couple of harpies showed up?"

Rodney paused to goggle at him a second, disbelief slowly turning to acceptance as he thought about what John had said. "Either the American educational system is better than I previously suspected or you are astonishingly well-read," he said grudgingly.

"Speak for yourself, _Moby Dick_ -boy."

Rodney gave a sudden sharp bark of laughter and turned away from his fruitless searching, shoulders slumping as he made his way wearily towards one of the walls. He slid down the cool, smooth surface to sit on the ground, legs outstretched as he cradled his head in his hands and massaged his temples. "Where there is an ingress there is an egress. I just have to _find_ it." He frowned, shifting his weight uncomfortably, and then lifting one hip to fish something out of his rear pants pocket. He sat staring at the object in his hand in dumb confusion for a moment.

"What's that?" John finally asked. The hunger still simmered along in his veins, but the oddly normal conversation he'd been having with Rodney had pushed it into the background temporarily.

Rodney held up the object in his hand with a snap of his wrist. "Eyeglass repair kit. Zelenka's." He got up and moved towards the cell door, reaching through the sprung bars to feel around for the lock and bringing his hand back, using the thumb of the other hand to mark a place on his index finger. "Are pondering what I'm pondering?"

John moved with that strange, eerie grace to join him. "Why am I always Pinky?" He complained to the room at large.

Rodney shot him an evil grin. "Because I am a genius and you're insane." He opened the little plastic packet and fished out the set of tiny screw drivers. Placing one in his mouth to hold it, he began trying unsuccessfully to bend the end of the other one. John moved closer.

"What are you trying to do?" he asked, as Rodney's face scrunched up with the effort and turned red.

Letting out his breath in a huff, Rodney handed John the little screwdriver and removed the other from his mouth. "See if you can bend the end—carefully mind you, don't break it—so that it looks like an Allen wrench but a little longer." He held out his finger to demonstrate the length needed for the bend.

John fingered the tiny tool carefully and placed his thumb on the end, easily bending it around his index finger into a 90 degree angle. He held it out for Rodney, who claimed it with satisfaction.

"That's just creepy and weird," he said in a pleased tone of voice as he inspected his new tool. "If we can't get you changed back you could have a whole new secondary career in the labs."

"Or opening jars in the mess," John said dryly.

"Yes." Rodney answered him distractedly as he studied the tools. He reached his arms through the barred door again, angling around to work the two ends of the screwdrivers into the metal lock. He leaned into the bars, mashing his face up against the door as he tried to maneuver the tools like picklocks. "I wonder if being transformed has affected your ATA gene in any way. I mean you still look like you, well, sort of, but it's like you didn't quite change all the way. Like Michael when the retro virus began to wear off. Your face is recognizable as being you and there's no way anyone could mistake the hair..."

"The Incredible Wraith," John drawled. "Don't make me angry," he quoted.

"What? Oh. Right. Um, sorry. Got off track there for a minute." He frowned and pushed harder to reach around the door. "Okay, shut up now, because I need to concentrate." Rodney obviously forgot he had been the one talking in the first place. The tiny _scritch-scratch_ of metal on metal could be heard as Rodney manipulated the tools in the lock. The placement of the bars made it hard for him to reach it; his feet began to scrabble on the hard-packed floor for stability as he strained towards the lock. He gave a little grunt of frustration as he slipped and banged his head on the door.

"Maybe I should try?" John suggested, waving his long fingers in a friendly sort of fashion at Rodney, who had straightened and was rubbing his forehead.

"And how many locks in your lifetime have _you_ picked, Colonel?" Rodney's tone was astringent.

"Well, not having a sister, I couldn't pick the lock on her diary. So perhaps not as many as you."

"Funny, very funny," Rodney's face turned red and he ducked his head, turning quickly back to the cell door. "I can get it, I just need to...if I wasn't..." his words turned into mutterings as he tried to position the tools in the lock. "I just can't get the purchase I need to catch the mechanism..."

John hesitated only a moment before stepping up behind Rodney and pressing in close, holding him up against the door. It was almost a mistake; Rodney jumped and nearly dropped both screwdrivers outside to the floor. He drew in his breath sharply and froze. John slowly wrapped his fingers around the bars on either side of Rodney's head and leaned into him. "What about now?" He tried for matter of fact, but somehow his voice came out in a growling purr instead.

"I...um...I..." Rodney stammered, not moving, save for the sudden increase in respiration.

John could feel Rodney's chest expand against him with a shuddering breath as John held him there against the iron bars. He could feel Rodney's pounding heart rate—how he wasn't certain, but he could almost envision his heart beating and the pulsing of blood though his veins and arteries. John closed his eyes and leaned into the back of Rodney's neck, nostrils flaring as he took in Rodney's scent. It was all there as before, the sharp pinch of fear, the spike of arousal, curling in his nostrils and whetting his appetite. He was conscious too of the hard length of his erection pressing up against Rodney's ass—there was no way that Rodney could miss that either. _This is insane_ , he thought as he rocked himself up against Rodney slightly.

"John," Rodney sounded oddly breathless. "You're not helping me _focus_."

Huh? Oh right. Sheepishly, John halted his grinding movements. "Sorry." His voice was completely unrecognizable to himself. He continued to hold Rodney up against the bars though, and after a moment, Rodney began working at the lock again.

"Wait a minute...almost...I think I've got it. There...there...damn it," he cursed as the tools slipped again. "It would help if I could see what I was doing and not working in the dark somewhere in a tiny hole. What? Are you like, twelve? Can you stop sniggering in my ear?"

"Sorry," John said again, this time voice shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Oh. My. God." Rodney continued to huff as he struggled with the lock, pushing back into John and letting him hold Rodney up. "I can't believe they actually allow you to carry a weapon." There was a sudden _snick_ and Rodney froze again.

"Rodney?" John started to ask, but Rodney was turning the screwdrivers from the outside of the cell and suddenly the door opened, sending both of them staggering into the corridor. Rodney almost went down to his knees before John caught him easily by one arm and hoisted him up. He released him as soon as Rodney was on his feet. "Good job, McKay. Let's get out of here. And Rodney, if by chance we run into any... _other_...Wraith around here, you're my prisoner, okay? Try to act a little scared of me, will ya?"

Rodney flashed him an odd look, before curling his lip and replying, "Very funny, Colonel." He busied himself brushing some mud off his sleeve without looking up again.

"Where do you think we are?" John asked as the two of them stepped out into the corridor, John inexplicably drawn into choosing to go right.

"You're asking me? Okay, it's dark, dank and hopelessly antiquated. We're probably in someone's underground bunker. Or the test lab for unauthorized and illegal experimentation on off-world visitors."

"I was afraid of that." He stopped, catching Rodney by the arm to speak to him. Rodney looked down quickly at his hand on Rodney's elbow and he let go abruptly, as though burned by the contact. He struggled to remember what it was he wanted to say.

"John?" Rodney questioned in the silence that ensued.

"If we get separated, you're to make your way to the surface and try to get to the gate. Don't wait for me."

"You're forgetting something in your usual need to be heroically self-sacrificial," Rodney said tartly as he started off in front of John again.

"What?" John frowned and then moved easily in long strides to catch up.

"Without an IDC, neither one of us is going back to Atlantis."

***

This. This felt right and familiar. He moved down the corridors, at one with the shadows, his senses telling him which way to the surface—he could already smell the fresh air circulating down from above, somehow knew that it was night in the forest outside. The only thing that was wrong was that he had to keep waiting for Rodney to catch up.

At one point, he caught Rodney roughly by the arm, slamming him with unnecessary force against the nearest wall and leaned into his face to snarl, "Must you make so much noise when you breathe?"

They stood that way for several long moments, Rodney struggling to take in his breath quietly, pupils dilated with fear or the dim lighting or something else entirely. He licked his lips. "I'm trying to keep up. You're just faster than usual."

John leaned in closer and Rodney thumped his head back on the wall, closing his eyes as he did so, exposing his neck, a long gleaming expanse of skin in the low level lighting. He continued to breathe hard, his mouth falling open slightly. John had never wanted anything more in his life and still did not know exactly _what_ he wanted when he released Rodney's arm, shoving his fist down in his jacket pocket. "C'mon," he said harshly, "let's keep moving."

He made his way unerringly to the surface, taking a series of confusing turns, choosing his path merely by scenting the air. Rodney had started in once (" _oh what, now you're Lassie_?") but had been strangely quiet for some time now. It was with relief that John came out of the final corridor to see it open into the night sky, the moon hanging like a giant medallion low in the naked limbs of the autumn trees. His breath hung in the air as cold vapor when he turned to speak to Rodney. "We made it." Frost glittered on the damp leaves underfoot, muting the sound of their passage.

"It was too easy." Rodney sounded surly and worried at the same time and John started to snarl in protest, but Rodney was right. It _was_ too easy.

"C'mon. We need to make our way towards the Gate." John plunged into the woods, the need to run almost overwhelming. The moon lit up the forest with a clear, cold light, outlining his path sharply. He fell into a light jog, and then began to move faster and faster, exhilarating in the frosty night air that stung as he drew it into his lungs. He could envision himself suddenly sprouting fur and springing forward to move on four legs—hell, he'd become a vampire today, why not a werewolf too? He could picture his nostrils flare as he took in the scent of his prey, feel sharp jaws snap around the tiny body of a vole, flip his head back and catch the soft, plump body again in his teeth, swallowing it down with a single gulp.

An intermittent crashing behind him marked Rodney's attempt to follow him through the woods. "Colonel. Wait." The thin cry sounded far behind him.

Shit. What was he thinking? He'd let Rodney fall too far behind. He was letting his senses control him; he needed to focus again, to regain self-control. He was moving swiftly back towards Rodney when he heard a muffled thump and then the ragged screaming began.

_No_! A wave of rage boiled up and over in John's heart and he flew through the forest towards the sounds, Rodney's "Colonel! _John_!" growing weaker and interspersed with cries of pain. The tableau spread before him in the clearing was thrown into stark relief by the clear-edged light of the moon. Rodney lay on his back on the ground litter, a Wraith soldier pining him down, hand plunged deep into his chest, sucking the very life out of Rodney as he struggled feebly to push the Wraith away. The Wraith looked up at John's arrival, and sneered its defiance when John came to a crashing halt.

" _Mine_!" John roared as he launched himself at the other Wraith, ripping him away from Rodney and rolling him into the brush. He punched and hit viciously, fingers rupturing the eyes, the heel of his hand pushing the Wraith's nasal bone into the plates of his skull. He closed his left hand around the windpipe of the blinded Wraith and crushed down, even as he drove his right into the Wraith's chest and began to draw energy within. "I want it _back_ ," he growled as the Wraith gurgled and died. He continued to feed, a triumphant rage engulfing him even as a small part of his mind gagged and sought a place to be ill. The Wraith in his hands continued to shrivel and collapse until his fingers were grasping what felt like paper.

He staggered to his feet.

Rodney lay where he had fallen, on his back, feet pressed against the earthen floor of the forest, one hand draped over his chest. John took three steps and was at his side, kneeling in the leaves beside him.

"Rodney." Please god, let him still be alive.

Rodney opened rheumy eyes to look up at him; hair clinging in wisps to a skull freckled with liver spots, cheeks sunken and dull. His clothing hung off of him, as though he had shrunk. His voice was a whisper. "John."

_Shit, shit, shit_. That mother-fucking Wraith almost got it all.

"Hey buddy," he said, his forced smile threatening to strangle him. "I gotta say, you've looked better."

"John," Rodney said again, closing his eyes. " _Finish it_."

John's hand was already smoothing Rodney's torn shirt over his pecs, his fingers brushing the bloody marks left by the other Wraith. He leaned into Rodney so he could whisper in his ear, even as he forcibly pressed his hand into Rodney's skin. "With pleasure."

Rodney gasped and arched up into his hand with a cry. John felt his smile widen and he pressed harder and felt the rush of energy flow out through his hand into Rodney's flesh. Rodney's mouth fell open and closed in soft wordless cries as he pushed against the earth and up into John's hand, head tilted back in apparent pain.

Only as John watched, the years peeled off of Rodney in reverse. Muscles regained tone and strength. Knobby joints returned to their former shape and size. Paper thin skin smoothed out and lost its wrinkles and spots, hair began to creep back across his skull. John watched with a fierce exultation as Rodney went from 90 to 70 to 50...his hand shaking with the effort of giving not taking, the act singing in his blood with an almost orgasmic rush of joy. He wanted to give Rodney more, give Rodney _all_. He felt himself approaching Rodney's actual age and he wanted to keep going, to take him further, all the way to his twenties if he could. _It's all yours, Rodney_.

 

Surprisingly, Rodney's eyes snapped open and he grabbed John's wrist firmly. "John, _stop_." Concern and something undefined registered in his clear blue eyes. Reluctantly, John let go. They sat there a moment, Rodney's hand still gripping his wrist, John's desire to connect with him again so very strong. He heard the movement behind him even as he saw Rodney's eyes widen. He was already turning when Rodney shouted, "Ronon, no!"

The blast took him down.

He lay on his back, stunned by the blow, not yet feeling anything other than a difficulty in breathing. As from a great distance he could hear Rodney's babble, _no, no, it's John, no he wasn't feeding on me, he was saving me_ , but feeling suddenly kicked in and each breath became a searing effort in agony.

"John, oh god, John. Teyla, _do_ something." Rodney was at his side, a folded cloth in his hands, pressing down on the wound in his chest.

"We need to get to the Gate," he heard Teyla say, far away and receding further.

"Go, go!" Rodney shouted. "We can't move him. Get Carson to come back with you right away."

"You should just let him die. That's not Sheppard any more." Ronon's voice was brutal, cutting like a whip.

"You shut the fuck up!" Rodney raged. John had never heard him like that before. And then, softer, quieter but with great anxiety, he heard Rodney speaking to him. "John. John. Can you hear me?"

He didn't realize that his eyes were closed. He opened them to see Rodney looking down on him in concern. Behind him, Ronon stood, Big Gun in hand, ready to fire again if needed. Good man, Ronon.

Rodney. He thought he'd spoken out loud, but apparently he only moved his lips. He could feel the blood bubbling up his airways, drowning him as he lay on dry land. Rodney suddenly gripped his hand and pulled it up to his chest.

"You listen to me, Sheppard," Rodney ground out, thumping John's limp hand against his chest, like he was trying to get it to stick. "Carson's on his way. You just need to hang on a little longer. Take from me what you need. _Take it_." Rodney's voice broke with desperation.

"Are you insane, McKay?" Ronon growled, disbelief and horror evident in his rigid posture.

Rodney ignored him. "Take it." He held John's hand against his chest, pressing down on the lax fingers.

"No," John mouthed the words. He gave a very wet smile. "That's not me."

The world greyed around the edges and the frost moved in.

***

"He's coming around." Rodney's voice sounded weary.

John opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in a dimly lit chamber, sunlight pouring in from the open stone windows, great rectangular shafts of light spilling into the dark room.

"What happened?'' The words slurred as they came out of his mouth. Teyla was kneeling on one side, Rodney on the other. Ronon stood a short ways off, looking uneasy.

"You appeared to have been caught up in some sort of testing machine," Teyla tried to explain. John looked up at her blankly.

"What she means," Rodney said, with less than his usual snap, "is that you seem to have gotten sucked into some sort of Ancient learning device, aimed at helping one understand and therefore defeat their enemies. Or at least, that's what I'm getting from the rough translation here. There's something else here—possibly about 'greatest fear' or 'greatest feared enemy' or something else—I'll need to get Elizabeth to look it over to be sure. "

"I was a Wraith," John croaked out. Teyla squeezed his hand while Ronon raised an eyebrow.

"When we entered the chamber on the trail of the energy signature that Dr. McKay was pursuing, you became trapped in a beam of light. We could not retrieve you. After a time, Rodney determined that it was a simulation and went in to help you escape, but was in turn trapped himself." Teyla helped him to sit up and then offered him a sip of water from his canteen.

"It felt so real. Simulation, huh?" He glanced over at Rodney. "How'd we get out?"

Rodney met his eye briefly and then away. "Simulation ran its course, I guess."

***

The de-briefing was hell to sit through. After they'd been cleared by Beckett, Elizabeth gave them a scant half hour to change clothes and take a shower before they reconvened to discuss the mission. John was both relieved and resentful of the time constraint—relieved because it postponed that much longer his ability to really think about what had happened to him today and resentful because...well, he wanted nothing more than to stand in the shower under a scalding hot spray until he burned away all his conflicting emotions. The perfunctory three minute military shower was just long enough for him to reassure himself that all the right bits were there in the right colors, but not long enough for him to truly rid himself of the feeling that he was somehow tainted by the experiences of the day.

He thought he was handling it well however, keeping things on the light side during the debrief with the occasional sarcastic comment, but Rodney was avoiding his eye and by the end of the meeting, he was not speaking directly to John either, but responding to anything John might have said by replying to Elizabeth instead. It pissed him off.

Elizabeth stopped him as everyone was leaving the briefing room. "Are you alright, John?" The concern in her voice was evident.

"I'm fine, Elizabeth," he drawled. He thought about leaning up against the doorframe as he spoke, as some sort of proof that everything was back to normal, but something in his body was still too tightly wound.

She walked around the end of the table, collecting the data pad the Rodney left behind so that she could work on the translation. She glanced at the pad in her hands briefly before lifting her eyes to look squarely at John again. "I want you to talk to Dr. Heightmeyer."

"I'm _fine_." He knew he was expected to give an eye-roll here and an easy smile but he just couldn't.

"I'm asking you to do this, John. Let's not make it an official request." Elizabeth fixed a sharp eye on him. "You were very short with Rodney here during the debriefing. I thought he tried to help you by entering the simulation today. I'm surprised at that frankly; the smart thing for him to do would have been to continue to try and shut down the program from the outside."

John thought seriously about his reply before speaking. He couldn't very well say that he was pissy because he'd just spend the better part of his day locked in a cell with Rodney and trying his best not to eat him. Or jump his bones. Or both. "It's been a long day," he said instead with an attempt at a smile.

Her expression softened. "Of course it has. Still, it would please me if you set up a few sessions with Kate. Go on, go get something to eat and some rest. You deserve it."

_You deserve it_. The phrase made his spine lock ramrod straight as he exited the room. Whatever he 'deserved', it was hardly a pat on the back, a comforting meal and a good night's sleep. He was suddenly too tired to even think about it anymore, slowing his steps towards the mess. He halted in the corridor and rubbed the side of his temple. Carson said the headache was a result of the time in the simulation device and had given him some Tylenol to take. What he really wanted to do right now was go lie down in a small, dark room. It wasn't until he was almost back to his quarters that he realized with a not-quite-laugh how similar the conditions he sought now were to the 'cell' he'd occupied all day.  
***

"Perhaps we should call it a day," Teyla said after he ended up flat on his back again. "You are not concentrating." She looked down on him in some mild concern. She was dressed in her usual work-out clothing, a fitted leather bodice over a flowing skirt, the sides split to allow full movement of her legs. She walked with a dancer's grace on bare feet towards him.

"No, really," John flapped a hand in her direction. "I think you've got my attention now."

Teyla didn't quiet _snort_ , she was too innately elegant for that, but she came damn close. She reached down to offer John a hand up, her copper-brown hair swinging forward as she leaned towards him. "Would you prefer to continue the session or perhaps you'd rather talk about what is distracting you?"

John allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and walked stiffly for a stride or two, hand on the small of his back, before shaking it off and taking position with the Bantos rods again. "Honestly? I'd rather you beat me up."

Teyla made a small face, dropping her eyelids briefly and giving him a sly smile. "As you wish."

She lunged forward and he met her attack blow for blow, sticks clattering together as parry was met and blocked. They continued in this fashion for several moments, before Teyla broke off her attack to circle him warily once more. "Better," she conceded, "but you are still fighting defensively. I know you are better than this, John. You are holding back."

A flash of irritation spurted into flame at her words. Damn it, just once he'd like to take her down a peg or two. It didn't matter that Teyla had been learning to fight from the moment she could walk, he'd been training with her for nearly a year and a half now, and his military background, his fitness and yes, damn it, his greater reach and strength should count for something by now. The memory of the speed, power and grace his body had retained when in the form of the Wraith was there, just simmering under the surface. If he'd been holding back, it was because he was afraid of it, afraid of what that anger unleashed could do. _Just do it. You can take her_.

This time, a split second before she made her move, John lunged forward, batting away her assault as though he were swatting at flies, moving with determination into her space, forcing her to retreat. He caught her raised eyebrow and he felt a not-very-nice-smile form on his face. He pressed his advantage with an angry snarl, recalling too how it had felt when he'd begun to change into something less than human after the retrovirus exposure, the only other time he'd had the upper hand with Teyla. With a neat side step, she evaded his maneuver, flipped her wrist and caused his stick to leave his hand and skitter across the floor. She followed with a sharp rap to his arm, a second blow to the back of his thigh and his leg buckled in response. He could not help but fall to his knees, gripping his arm with a grimace.

"You used your anger to direct your attack—that was good," Teyla pointed her rod at him. At least she was slightly out of breath. "But you cannot let it control you. You ride the anger; it does not ride you."

John nodded thoughtfully a moment and then said, "With all due respect, Teyla, just what the hell does that mean?"

Teyla did laugh this time. "I am not certain. It is something my father used to say." She tilted her head at him in assessment. "And then he would sit down with me and try to determine why I was so angry. Would you like to talk about it now?"

John climbed slowly to his feet, rolling his shoulders painfully. "I have a hard time picturing you as an angry person, Teyla." He collected his rod from the floor and walked over to the bench where their gym bags were stacked, handing over his sticks to Teyla so that she could put them away.

"And yet I was, much of the time, when I was growing up. I was angry with the Wraith for destroying our lives, angry with my people for choosing a life of subsistence over growth, angry with the Ancestors for letting it happen. Angry with myself for not making a difference."

"Sooo," he drawled, trying to picture a pissed off, pint-sized teenaged Teyla, "how'd you get over it?"

She smiled ruefully as she looked up at him. "I learned to accept what I could not change. I learned that I had a right to be angry, but that if I let that consume me, I would lose today by grieving for yesterday. If you are angry with yourself, why are you taking it out on Dr. McKay?" She eyed him thoughtfully. "It has been several days now and still you are not speaking as friends do to each other. Why is that, John?"

_Whoa! Didn't see that coming_. "I don't know." He mentally flinched at the whine. _Because I can't have what I want. Because I shouldn't want it_. There. He finally admitted it to himself. He tried to qualify his statement. "It's complicated."

"Human emotion always is. But for both your sakes you need to figure it out." Teyla gave him a long, hard look that said she wasn't buying it, but that she'd let him get away with it for now. "Talk to him, John."

"Yeah, okay." How could he say no to Teyla?

***

John was startled by Rodney's appearance in Heightmeyer's doorway when he showed up for his appointment. Not that he should have been: if he'd thought about it, time with Heightmeyer must have almost been as mandatory for Rodney as it had been for him. It was just the immediacy of it that caught him off guard.

"Colonel." Rodney looked embarrassed, eyes sliding away down the corridor over John's shoulder.

"McKay."

Rodney gave a stiff nod and ducked his head away, sidling past John as though he were reluctant to come any closer. This was bad. John simply did not know what to do to fix it.

He gave a little sigh. "Rodney."

Rodney's eyes locked onto his face and once again John was struck by their color and intensity. He felt his own eyes drop to the floor in response. "Look, I'm really sorry about..." He glanced up, uncertain where to go from here.

"No. No. Not at all," Rodney stammered, an uncomfortable looking flush starting at his neck and creeping upwards. "It wasn't your fault. There were other factors, circumstances..."

"Still." John resisted the urge to shuffle his feet and instead ran a hand up the back of his neck.

"Forget about it," Rodney's tone was sharp and then flustered once more. "We're good. Fine. Everything's fine." He turned abruptly and hurried off down the hallway.

John stood in the open doorway watching him until he heard Kate Heightmeyer clear her throat. "Is he going to be okay?" He indicated Rodney's retreating form.

"Perhaps that is a conversation that you and Rodney should have between yourselves." Damn it. She managed to sound prim and as though hiding amusement at the same time.

"I just _tried_ ," John pointed out crossly.

"Might I suggest that next time you chose a less public forum than in the middle of my doorway?" The amusement was in plain sight now. John felt himself scowling at her. Her smooth serenity irritated him in a way that Teyla's never did—probably because he knew that Teyla's came at high personal cost and was a way of life for her and Heightmeyer's was designed to be _soothing_.

"Are you planning to come in sometime today, Colonel, or shall we conduct this session where we stand?" Her tone became ever so slightly tart.

John strode past Kate into her office and took up his usual position, leaning against the wall near the window so he could look out at the ocean. He folded his arms protectively across his chest, recognized what he was doing and let them fall to his sides, fists clenched.

Kate seated herself in her comfortable chair, facing the empty couch across from her. She smiled as she lifted a steaming mug of Athosian tea and took a sip. She pushed back a long strand of impossibly red hair over her shoulder before she spoke.

"What shall we talk about today, John?" He was always _John_ here, once he was safely within the confines of her office, the gate to the corral tightly closed. "Would you care to discuss why you are slightly more compliant when I am rude to you?"

He looked over his shoulder at her. "That was hardly rude." She waited in silence. He sighed, rolling his eyes as he thought about it. He thought of the home he'd grown up in, where everyone's true feelings were hidden behind politeness and shark-like smiles. "Okay, rudeness seems more honest somehow."

"Really?" She raised a delicate brow. "So then, Rodney McKay is the most honest person you know?"

That drew an unwilling laugh from him. "Well, at least you always know where you stand with him."

"Not always," she said cryptically. "But perhaps you should tell him you find his 'honesty' refreshing."

"Maybe." John shrugged, digging a toe into the carpet before catching himself and glancing up to find Heightmeyer's eyes on him.

"I would find a way to talk to him, John." She stared at him seriously with smoky grey-green eyes and for a moment, he could feel her intent to convey something perhaps she had no business doing.

"Okay," he found himself agreeing. Damn it, first Teyla, then Heightmeyer. Who was next? Elizabeth? Ronon? He was _not_ having this conversation with Ronon.

Kate smiled. "Good. Now then, let's talk about your experiences as a Wraith..."

"I don't see any point in continuing to do that," John said harshly, giving Heightmeyer only his profile to look at as he turned towards the sea.

"Really?" That damn placating tone was back again. "And why is that?"

"Because none of it was real. It was a simulation made up out of things in my own head. We can't possibly rely on any of the information I learned as being accurate when it comes to Wraith physiology or behavior." He folded his arms again and thumped his shoulder into the wall for good measure.

He could hear the chink of sound as Kate lowered her mug to the table again. "You _have_ proven to be adept at manipulating simulations before," she conceded. "So you do not believe the Wraith view humans as a source of food that also grants them sexual pleasure? Or that they are capable of reverse feeding? You must admit, that concept in particular is pretty original. You're sure that everything that occurred was a figment of your own imagination and not based on some facts somewhere programmed into the simulation?"

"Face it." He never called her by name when they were together in session. He wondered sometimes what she made of that, since he didn't know himself. "The Wraith are pretty scary. Who wouldn't want to believe that there was a way of surviving what they can do to you? Yeah, I probably made it up."

"I'm not surprised that you could make something like that up, John." Kate's voice was gentle. "Only that you would admit it."

***

"You gonna eat that?"

John looked up at Ronon who was sitting across the table from him, eyeing the tray before him expectantly. John shrugged. "Guess not," he said, pushing the tray towards Ronon who was already reaching for it. "Just not all that hungry."

Ronon speared a great forkful of mashed tormack and shoveled it into his mouth with a blissful expression on his face. "Back to your old eating habits then?" He spoke around the mouthful of food, smirking slightly.

"Ha-ha. Very funny. Ever think about taking your show on the road?"

Ronon bared his teeth to indicate he got the joke, with its implication that Ronon could leave any time now. John watched as he used his tormack as a sort of bond to stick the green peas to the fork as well. There was something inherently revolting about the combination of the purple tubers and the tiny green peas and John watched in sick fascination as Ronon ate. No matter how good tormack tasted, food just should not be _purple_.

_Nor should it be your friends_. The smart-ass internal voice that had been fairly silent these last few days spoke up with a vengeance. John gave a little sigh.

Ronon picked up on it, eyes flicking up from the plate to catch his own. "So," Ronon said, attacking his meatloaf with a fork as though it still needed to be killed. "What was it like?"

"What was what like, Ronon?" John said dryly. "Being turned into a Wraith, getting locked in a cell all day with Rodney or getting shot by you...again."

Ronon grinned. "It's the first I'm interested in. I know all about the rest."

"It was...intense," John said at last. "The need to eat was almost overwhelming. And there was...other stuff...mixed up in with it too." He shifted uneasily at Ronon's lifted eyebrow. "But I don't know how much really translates into the real thing. I mean, there's no way of knowing for sure how much of what I experienced was based in real facts of Wraith physiology or how much I made up out of my head."

"Not much use as a training weapon if it's not real." Ronon said succinctly, using his knife to push more peas onto a tormack-laden fork.

"You know the Ancients. Sometimes the 'important lessons' have more to do with you as a person than with any meaningful battle plan." John leaned back in his chair, one elbow slung over the back of it.

"Probably why there are no more Ancients." Ronon grunted. He fixed an unexpectedly discerning eye on John's face. "So. You being turned into something you hate. That's your biggest fear?"

John tipped his hand where it lay on the table top in a mini-shrug. "Makes sense. On some level, I gotta still be freaked by that whole bug incident."

Ronon grinned. "You've been talking to Heightmeyer."

John's hand shrugged _again_. It wasn't just the turning-into-a-bug thing. It was the loss of self-control again, the fact that he would have been a risk to the expedition, the idea that he could hurt those around him and not even care. That he could fail utterly and completely on such a colossal scale. _That he could become like Ford_.

Not to mention all that shit with Rodney.

"Do you think that bit about the reverse feeding is even possible?" John asked suddenly, sitting up and leaning forward. If anyone would know, it would be Ronon.

Surprisingly, Ronon laid down his fork to answer. "I dunno. Maybe. There've been rumors. Stories about people who worship the Wraith." Ronon's face twisted into a snarl without his realizing it. "I've always thought there had to be more to it than simply not wanting to be eaten. But then, what do the Wraith get out of it?"

John thought about how he felt when he had looked down upon Rodney's crumpled up form—looking for all the world like the shriveled up corpse of a dead spider. He remembered what it felt like to plunge his hand into Rodney's chest and open up the channel of energy within him, to feel it surging out of him down his arm and into Rodney's body. In some ways, it was like when he sat in the Chair, but instead of having new worlds open up for him at his thoughts, he could feel Rodney's blood vessels opening up at his mental command, could feel the new life flooding back into his very cells. If the Wraith felt any of the very visceral response he had to those actions...well, that could explain a lot.

"I could have killed Rodney," he said suddenly. "The simulation was so real. If I had tried to feed on him..." he trailed off to look up and meet Ronon's eye.

"But you didn't. You saved him. Whether the Wraith can really do that or not, that's what _you_ chose to do." Ronon's eyes bored into him, as though he wanted John to catch some deeper meaning that John simply could not understand. John looked away.

"Yeah." He fiddled with his water bottle, not meeting Ronon's eye. He heard Ronon sigh and pick up his fork again.

"So why are you guys avoiding each other?"

John looked up sharply, feeling his face start to flush. _Damn it_. He hadn't wanted to have this conversation with Ronon too. He dropped his eyes back to the water bottle again and muttered, "I dunno. Just general awkwardness, I guess."

"Well, get over it. It's stupid." Ronon mopped up his gravy with a piece of bread and folded the whole thing in his mouth with one sardonic eyebrow raised.

***

"We need to talk," John said abruptly, when the door to Rodney's quarter's opened. Rodney had obviously been in bed; he stood with ruffled hair looking slightly confused in a faded blue t-shirt and lime green boxers. Behind him, the covers of his bed were tossed back. In worn, nearly illegible print, the t-shirt announced a million dollar reward for Schrödinger's cat: dead or alive. "Like the shirt." John indicated the tee with a wave of his hand.

Rodney looked down stupidly at his own shirt and then up at John's face. It must have been cold that made him shiver slightly. Suddenly Rodney's nipples were making an appearance under the tee-shirt and John had a hard time keeping his eyes on Rodney's face. _Damn it_. He thought he'd be over this by now.

"Do I get to come in?" He said dryly as the silence stretched on and Rodney suddenly seemed to come to his senses.

"What? Oh. Of course. Yes." Rodney backed up into the room and then spun abruptly and marched over to his desk, where a tatty, formerly white bathrobe was hanging over the back of his chair. He shrugged into it with his back turned towards John. "Wait a minute. What time is it?" He reached towards his desk and picked up his watch, peering at it before turning to shake it at John. "It's three am!" He tossed the watch back on the table and shoved his hands into the pockets of his bathrobe, shoulders hunched, somehow managing to look like he was protecting his groin while glaring furiously at John at the same time.

"Okay. You know what? You're right. Bad idea." John turned for the door.

"Wait." Rodney stopped him with a weary sigh and an uplifted hand. "You're here now. Come on. Let's get this over with."

They stood staring at each other for a long moment. "Okay, so this is going well." Rodney said with a snort. John opened his mouth, tipping his hand towards Rodney with a helpless shrug but Rodney cut him off before he could even try to speak. "Hold that thought," he said, smirking at John because they both knew that talking was not John's forte.

Rodney went around to the far side of his desk and lifted up a metal cooler that had come from one of the labs. One side was emblazoned in bright orange stickers that read BIOHAZARD. Rodney placed it on top of his desk and began to unseal the container. Water vapor roiled out of the open lid and Rodney cautiously reached into the unit to extract two bottles of beer. Rodney held one out to John with a grin. "Dry ice" he said by way of explanation as he closed the cooler. He waved John over to the end of the bed as he pulled out his chair and sat down, uncapping his own beer.

Molson. Of course. John twisted off the cap and took a swig of the cold beer, savoring the taste as it went down. He flipped the cap over to the trash can next to Rodney's desk and made a little 'two points' gesture when it banked off the rim and landed within. He sat down on the end of the bed, holding the bottle by its neck and dropping his head, resting his elbows on his knees.

John glanced up when Rodney flapped a hand in his direction. "So, talk."

John studied the bottle of beer dangling between his knees. "Rodney, look, I'm really sorry about..."

"We've been over this," Rodney cut him off. He waved his bottle of beer at John as he took another drink. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"Goddamn it, Rodney, will you just _shut up_?" John yelled, snapping his head up. The ensuing silence was deafening. He stood up abruptly, didn't know where to go and sat down again, running a hand through his hair in frustration. All the while Rodney watched him with those luminous eyes. "Jesus, Rodney, I practically _molested_ you. We can't just ignore that."

Rodney's lips formed that tight line that they did when he was trying hard not to say something he might regret. "You also saved my life. You keep forgetting that."

"Because I thought of you as _mine_." John ground the words out harshly and then was aghast at what he had said. He glanced involuntarily at Rodney to see how he was reacting. "Besides," he added hastily, "you were willing to let me feed off of you when you thought I was dying. That's...that's really big, Rodney."

Unexpectedly, Rodney was nodding thoughtfully. He took a deep pull from his bottle of beer and John watched as his Adam's apple bobbed, recalling vividly that moment in the cell when he'd pinned Rodney to the wall in anger. The heat of Rodney's body beneath his own. That trickle of sweat that had flowed from his temple down his hairline to his jaw...Rodney set the bottle on the table beside him. "You know Elizabeth was working on the final translation of the device and its purpose."

It was John's turn to nod and drink some more beer.

"Well, I was right, it was a simulation designed to allow the user to get into the head of the enemy, whomever that might be, but that's not all. The complete transcription roughly translates into 'know thy enemy, know thyself.'"

WTF? He didn't like where this conversation was going. "What the hell does that mean, McKay?" He eyed Rodney as he took another swallow.

Rodney winced briefly at his tone. He delayed answering for a moment, drinking some more beer before reaching up to scratch his forehead. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, looking ridiculously earnest in his bathrobe and with his bare legs. "What was the one thing about the whole experience that struck you the most—that really stuck with you?"

John sat up straighter and took a deep breath as he thought about it. "That I enjoyed the strength and power being a Wraith gave me. That I am not that different from them deep down." He hesitated and then closed his mouth on the rest of his words. _That I could hurt someone I care about_.

"Okay," Rodney said with a painful twist to his smile. "Those were _your_ fears. And the unit was programmed to let you explore them. But you weren't the only one in the simulation."

There was a pause of several heartbeats. "I don't understand." John felt his forehead wrinkle up in a frown.

"I was afraid I couldn't solve the problem—couldn't fix you. I know, hard to believe, eh? That the egotistical Rodney McKay could ever have doubts about his ability to solve a problem, any problem. But I live in fear every day of failing the expedition, the team...you. And I was afraid of losing your friendship. I was afraid you'd find out about...my _other_ fear." Rodney looked up, let out an exasperated sigh at John's lack of comprehension and snatched up his bottle again. He took another strong swig without looking at John.

"You're afraid I'll hit on you?" John knew his face had to be saying, 'huh?' but he really didn't get it. He drank again, his eyes fixed on Rodney's face from over the top of the bottle.

Rodney glowered at him with the 'you are such a dumb fuck' expression and finally snarled out, "I was afraid I would _enjoy_ it."

Rodney continued to scowl at him when it became apparent that he still did not understand. "Ohmygod. Can you really be that oblivious? I thought it was all an act to keep you out of unwanted relationships. Like this one. With me."

"Oh. _Oh_." The lightbulb finally clicked on.

"Oh." Rodney mimicked sarcastically and then emptied his bottle. "Happy now? Those mixed up feelings you had were engineered by the device because of _me_. They had nothing to do with you."

"Huh." John took another pull from the bottle and sat watching Rodney.

Rodney set his empty bottle down with a thump and stood up, hastily retying his robe tighter around his body. "Okay. Conversation over now. You need to leave."

John raised an eyebrow. "But I'm not finished my beer."

Rodney stalked over to where John sat and snagged the beer out of his hand, chugging down the remainder and then wiping the back of his mouth with his free hand. "All gone. Good _night_ , Colonel."

John stood up slowly and reached for the bottle still in Rodney's hands. "That wasn't very nice," he said mildly. "Give me that." He tugged on the glass, but Rodney frowned and held firm.

"It's empty, you don't need it."

"It's mine." They continued to foolishly tug back and forth over the bottle until John grabbed Rodney's wrist with his left hand.

"Hey!" Rodney complained, reaching across their hands to grab at John's forearm. John let his fingers tighten on Rodney's wrist and he pulled him a step closer to John.

With the stumbling step forward, Rodney suddenly ceased to struggle. John became hyperaware of him again, just as he had when they were still in the cell. He could feel the warm skin beneath his fingers where the sleeve of the bathrobe had pushed up. Rodney smelled like beer and the soap he was using these days and that indefinable something that made him Rodney—a scent John would know anywhere. Rodney's lashes dropped to his cheekbones as he stared down at their entangled hands.

"Colonel," Rodney said carefully without looking up. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I don't know," John answered with a huff of soft laughter. "I've never done it before."

Rodney's eyes snapped up to his face then—sharp and discerning, looking for the tease, the cruel joke.

"There were two people in the simulation, Rodney."

"You...you can't be serious." Rodney pulled his head back and fixed a hard stare on John's face. "What about...?"

Rodney's inevitable question about Chaya or Teer or whomever he intended to use as an example of John's dedication to playing the role of Kirk in Atlantis was lost when John released his hold on the bottle and placed his right palm squarely in the center of Rodney's chest. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then Rodney's eyes fluttered half-closed at the contact. John let go of Rodney's wrist with his other hand and transferred his grip to the back of Rodney's head instead, brushing his lips with a kiss even as he pressed his palm into the muscle of Rodney's chest.

The bottle fell unnoticed to the floor and rolled away. Rodney reached up and closed his fingers around John's upper arm as though he were about to push John away, but then he made a tiny noise in the back of his throat and melted into John, mouth opening suddenly and pulling John in for a deep kiss. John made a not-quite-whimpering noise at all the sudden contact, his right hand sliding down Rodney's chest and rubbing restlessly up and down the plush fabric covering Rodney's side. He was startled into breaking the kiss at the insistent push of Rodney's cock towards his groin.

He dropped his hand from the back of Rodney's neck to his shoulder and said somewhat breathlessly, "Whoa, Rodney. Been holding out on me?"

"You're serious about this. You're not just jerking my chain?" Rodney had dropped his chin and was frowning at him belligerently.

"Chain wasn't what I had in mind." John tried to maintain a seductive expression but suddenly lost it when a snigger burst forth from his lips. He leaned into Rodney as though he couldn't hold himself up, trying not to laugh. Rodney's arms came up behind him and they collapsed down on the bed.

"Ohmygod. You are so bad at this. Have you ever actually been laid? Because I am starting to doubt it, despite all previous evidence to the contrary." Rodney thumped him on the shoulder and then rolled up on one elbow, looking down on him in assessment. John bit his lip in an effort not to smile. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back with a sharp breath when Rodney's hand dropped to cup his crotch.

Rodney's thumb moved in slow circles over the thick cotton material and he could not help but place his own hand over Rodney's to hold it there, eyes fixed in fascination on the movement of Rodney's fingers against the fabric. He looked up to find Rodney watching him, intent, looking for all the world like John was an unknown device that he had to figure out.

"I'm serious," he said thickly, shifting uncontrollably under Rodney's touch. Rodney rolled in to lean across John's chest, never ceasing his rhythmic massage of John's groin.

"But you've never done this, have you? Not with a guy."

John thought of his years in the service and the times a quick hand job between friends had been an accepted but unspoken form of release, especially during the bad times. He knew that wasn't what Rodney was asking however. A part of him thought maybe he should be a little more freaked about the line that he was about to cross, only once you've been a space vampire, everything else seemed less freak-worthy. He slowly reached up to cup Rodney's cheek, rubbing a thumb across his whiskery jaw line before running his hand up the back of Rodney's head and into his hair. "So teach me," he smiled.

Rodney caught his breath—his eyes seemed to lose focus momentarily and then his lids swept shut and he began to mutter, "And just like that, he fulfills yet another fantasy..."

John wouldn't have minded if he'd been reciting the Gettysburg address, only Rodney's hand stopped moving as well. He'd just opened his mouth to protest the lack of action when Rodney's eyes snapped open and John found himself staring up into a look of fanatical determination. "Lesson one," Rodney said, voice suddenly husky, "sex works better with less clothes." His pupils dilated sharply and that combined with his crooked smile made him suddenly look like the epitome of sex.

"Lesson one—less clothes, got it." John pushed Rodney back, sat up and peeled off his tee shirt and flung it to the floor, reaching quickly for his belt to undo his BDU's. He got distracted however, when Rodney moved in behind him and half pulled him into Rodney's lap, hands reaching around to stroke his chest, to play with his nipples, even as Rodney nipped at the side of his neck. With a growl, John turned in Rodney's arms, pinning him down to the bed, pushing himself between Rodney's thighs. The way they fell open easily, inviting him in, only drove him on. He knelt between Rodney's spread legs, pushing at the robe until he had it off over Rodney's shoulders, and then tugged up at the t-shirt until Rodney sat up and let it be pulled off over his head, all the while Rodney's hands wandered in exploration across his own skin.

When Rodney lay back down, there was no denying the impressive tenting of his boxers. John took hold of the shaft through the thin cotton material and noted with gratification Rodney's reaction. Rodney began to breath deeply at the touch, eyes closing to half slits as he stared at John, one hand dropping down to cover John's wrist where he continued to work Rodney's cock. His dick was warm and heavy in his hand, the wetness of pre-come soaking the fabric of the boxers at the tip. John stared down at all that expanse of pale skin, oddly fascinated by the pink nipples standing up from within the smattering of light brown chest hair. He couldn't help but drop his head to taste and smiled when Rodney's chest rose up slightly to meet him. He sucked one small nipple in between his lips, smiling at the sounds Rodney made as he did so. One of Rodney's hands came up to grip him by the hair sharply and when he lifted his head, his mouth was claimed by Rodney in a hungry attack. He started to rock against Rodney only to get pushed off suddenly.

"Ow," Rodney winced, tugging at John's belt. "Less clothes, remember?"

"Sorry." John rolled off of him, feeling colder instantly. He tugged viciously at his laces, finally pulling them free to kick off his boots and then he shrugged out of his pants and briefs. His cock bounced as he stood upright again to face the bed and he hesitated as he looked down at Rodney.

Rodney was leaning up on one elbow, watching him with an expression of awe on his face. He'd managed to shuck his boxers when John was getting undressed and his cock stood up proudly, red, hard and leaking. As John watched, Rodney's eyes widened and he grabbed the base of his cock hard. "Ohmygod. You're gorgeous, you know that, right?"

John made a face.

"Oh forget I said anything. Stop analyzing. Get over here." Rodney sounded so imperious and normal that John forgot to be self-conscious and allowed himself to be tugged down onto the bed.

John opened his mouth to speak, to tell Rodney that he loved the curve of his ass and the broadness of his shoulders but Rodney forestalled him. "I just know you are about to say something stupid, like how much you love the fact that I'm losing my hair or that I have a little extra around the middle." Rodney rolled John underneath of him and spoke with an evil gleam in his eye. "Just shut up. I know all my beauty is _kinetic_."

And Rodney proceeded to show him exactly what he meant, clever fingers and mobile lips moving with determination and skill over John's body until he thought quite possibly he might die from the pleasure. His body jerked upwards when Rodney closed his mouth over the end of John's cock, the warm, wet sensation almost unbearably good after having been teased for so long by Rodney's touch. One hand flailed into the bedsheets, fisting the material as he longed to push against something, the other fell to the back of Rodney's head, resting there as Rodney rode his cock up and down with his mouth until John felt his balls tighten and he was coming with a gasp.

Rodney let John's cock drop from his mouth with a smirk and an indecent pop and swarmed up John's body to kiss him deeply. He could taste himself in Rodney's mouth and his head swam a little with all the nerve impulses that were firing at once. As Rodney kissed him, his cock made its presence urgently known against John's thigh and John reached down to brush it with his fingers.

Rodney broke off the kiss to drop his head to John's shoulder and groan. Feeling bolder, John took a firmer hold, brushing the tip to collect more pre-come and using it to slick the shaft. Rodney reached across his chest and grabbed his shoulder, turning into his flank and pushing up against him.

"C'mon Rodney, show me what you like." John whispered encouragingly. Rodney forced a hand between them and closed broad fingers over John's as he continued to stroke, guiding John into a faster pace, tightening John's fingers beneath his own. John felt Rodney's cock swell further in his hand and he began to add a little twist to each pull. Rodney started breathing in short, sharp stutters and then John felt the warm splash of come spilling over his hand and thigh. He slowed his action, keeping up the contact until Rodney squeezed his hand to get him to stop, too sensitive to the touch.

Rodney's head had ended up on his shoulder, his other arm still draped across John's chest and hand lightly resting on John's upper arm. He insinuated a thigh, warm and heavy, between John's own with a satisfied sigh. John brought his arm up behind Rodney's back and lightly traced each vertebra down his spine until he reached the cleft of his ass. He found himself chuckling.

"Oh here we go with the maniacal laughter again," Rodney grumbled, sounding sleepy. "What is it this time?"

John bit his lower lip as he stared innocently at the ceiling. "I was just thinking I might end up eating you one day after all."

Rodney lifted his head to stare at John with startled eyes that widened with astonishment and then narrowed with an amused wickedness. "Promises, promises."

John closed his eyes and laughed.

~fin~

End Notes:

I wanted to give a special nod to the_cephalod for the introduction of the wonderful tuber known as 'tormack'. It made its appearance in her lovely story "Catalyst" and it is my belief it should be a staple of fanon. :-)

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.wraithbait.com/viewstory.php?sid=13403>  



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